she prattled on about marrying Tyler. And now . . . I wanted nearly the opposite. If she didn’t want to get married I wanted it to be her choice, not an escape tactic, not a knee-jerk reaction to the cruelty she perceived.
I wanted to go back to that “I’m never going to be where you are” but was suddenly mortified. My daughter thought I was wrecked? “That’s not hard, working with Tyler now?” I asked.
She said, “No,” but her eyes told a different story. It hurt, I could see it. “We have another one tomorrow, you know. He’s picking me up, so we can review some of the argument on the way to Cincinnati.” She surprised me by laughing and covering her face. “Oh, my God. A marriage ban. I actually said that. You should have seen their faces!”
It seemed like I was supposed to offer her something here. Something of hope, something of reassurance. But I had no idea what it was. I found myself defenseless, idly scratching Gerald’s ears until he reached up and snagged the skin of my wrist with the claws of his one front paw.
Chapter Thirteen
AFTER GABBY WENT TO BED, I E-MAILED BOBBY, SAYING, “Gabriella is very upset about what happened today. Please talk to her.”
I tried to sleep, but I worried over that “No man is going to wreck me” like a terrier with a bone. Is that how Gabby saw me? And when I wasn’t mulling that, I was picturing Zayna and Bobby with their puppy. The image made me feel like someone sat on my chest.
I woke up in the wee hours, with a slight hangover headache, to Gerald and Gingersnap growling at each other at the foot of the bed—deep, demonic rumbles, punctuated by spitting and hissing. “Shut up,” I warned, but they were in full throttle. Max stood with his two front feet on the bed, whining, trying to be the peacemaker.
I finally kicked the two cats out of the room and managed to get back to fitful sleep for an hour or so before the whole routine started again. This time, there was no Max trying to moderate. It was barely light outside.
I padded past Gabby’s room, but her door was already open, her bed made. Max must be with her, down in the barn. Poor Gabby. I lay briefly on her bed, breathing her pillow.
Downstairs in my office I cursed to discover Gerald had emptied my purse and shredded my checkbook, a pad of sticky notes from the Advantage drug rep, and what appeared to have fortunately been only a one-dollar bill. “You little paper-loving shit,” I muttered. I cleaned up, then checked my e-mail. There was one from Vijay, saying he was heading to the airport to fly back to the States. While I sat there, an e-mail popped in from Bobby. Just one line: “Please tell Gabriella to talk to me.” You bastard. Why did she have to do the work? Why would you put the burden on the child? Okay, a seventeen-year-old intelligent young woman, but still a child. I rolled my eyes at the way we both said “please.”
While I was waiting for the coffee to brew, I jumped when Gabby’s cell phone went off in her backpack on the floor. The ring tone was the Sopranos theme song. I dug out the phone, even though I knew who it was—and sure enough it said “Dad.”
We’d teased Tyler the first few times he’d encountered Bobby’s crazy family. “So, what do you think of the Binardis?” I asked him after one Sunday family dinner.
He smiled, wide-eyed, and said, “It’s kinda like The Sopranos without all the guns.”
I couldn’t help myself. I said, feigning surprise, “You haven’t seen the guns?”
I had him for a minute.
Here in the kitchen, Gabby’s phone beeped. New voice mail.
I was not a snoop. But I was Gabriella’s mom, and occasionally I scrolled through her call history to make sure I recognized who she talked to. I didn’t listen to her messages—I just liked to be sure there wasn’t some name I couldn’t identify. So, I flipped open her phone.
“Dad.” “Dad.” “Dad.” I scrolled down. Since seven o’clock last night, Bobby had called her fifteen times, and she’d never answered. There was not one call dialed from Gabby to her father.
Here I’d been e-mailing Bobby to call her. But, damn it, where was he? Why wasn’t he showing up? Tracking her down? Why wasn’t he trying harder?
The coffeemaker finished dripping, and